


In My Time of Need

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [24]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 16:37:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14752454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: What did they have in common, these two elderly men?  One would have thought little indeed, the one being a bitter, world-weary man just trying to get through life in London's poorer section without giving any more of himself than he had to; the other being a gentle minister in a small village in Wales, devoting his life and efforts to the care and betterment of those with whom he'd been entrusted.  Well, that perhaps would have been true, until they each were drawn in by a pair of pain-filled blue-green eyes and a man in need of help perhaps only they could give.





	In My Time of Need

Giles Masters was an old man; well, maybe not in years, in years he was only a little shy of sixty. But the years had not been kind. He'd married late, at thirty five, to his sweet Ruth; he'd loved her for years, but she'd been married to his best friend, so he kept his feelings to himself. When Dick had been killed on the docks, Giles kept an eye on the widow, tried to look out for her. Eventually, she'd turned to him for more than a shoulder to cry on and they were married, and she'd seemed contented with him. She bore him their son, Davie, and Giles thought life had a sweet flavor to it, til Ruth came down with the lung sickness and died when Davie was not quite six. He raised his boy alone, and proud of him he'd been, a handsome dark-haired lad with his mother's blue eyes, smart and willing.

But Davie had marched off to war in a fine blue uniform to fight that madman in Germany, and had never come back; in fact, the telegram had arrived not six months after his Davie had left. And Giles pulled back from the world, deciding it was best to not get involved, not care for anyone again, if he was only going to lose them. He succeeded pretty well, it became known that while old Giles did his bit, don't expect an arm around the shoulders or a comradely smile or aught else; he lived his life, he kept himself to himself, that's the way it was.

Til that night when the tall skin-over-skeleton dark haired soldier in the ratty blue uniform stumbled in through the door of the place where Giles worked. 'Needed to get home,' he said, poor lad, but not having any idea how to get there. 'Never been there before,' he said, with the fever gleaming in his blue-green eyes and on his flushed cheeks. Giles tried to keep his distance, tried to remind himself he didn't get involved, didn't care anymore, but somehow, those eyes, they just wouldn't let him step back. So, he pulled out two aspirin, the last til his next ration card came through, his last swallow of tea, and the tag end of the bread and cheese sandwich he'd saved from his lunch, got the man settled on a hard straight backed chair, and put the 'Closed' sign in the window and pulled all the curtains, so as not to be disturbed; started searching through his almanacs and record books and maps til he found the name and symbol scrawled on the slip of paper in front of him.

It didn't seem likely, it was only a rail station in the wilds of northern Wales, a place the trains didn't even stop less they were asked special, having supplies to drop off or such, but it matched, even to that odd symbol that wasn't even listed in the symbol guide. Giles could tell there wasn't any other information he'd be getting from the man, so he let the soldier doze in the chair while he got the rail passes, directions, all that would be needed together. The thin, very thin sheaf of money he'd been handed, well, it wouldn't cover this, not quite, and the company didn't make allowances for such, but Giles opened his wallet and pulled out the bit remaining. So, he'd be on half rations for the next week or so; somehow, it was more important that he get this lad someplace safe. It's what he'd have wished someone could have done for his own lad. When there was enough time to get to the station by walking slowly, him thinking the man couldn't move any faster, but with not a lot to spare, he woke the lad, talked to him about the dangers of the journey, got the packet tucked into his uniform tunic, and then, Giles put his own worn coat around those far too thin shoulders. {"Well, I've my Sunday best at home; can't wear more than one at a time anyway, now can I?"}

He walked the soldier to the station, got him situated in the right car, back against the wall, where none could come at him from behind, reminded him to stay awake, stay alert, wished him luck with a firm handshake and warm grip of his shoulder, and walked away. He paused at the entry, turning to look back, thinking, {"I hope he makes it home, poor lad."} He took a moment to point him out to the train man, asking him to keep a kindly eye out, telling him the getting off point, but the train man had a lot of responsibility, so Giles wasn't sure just how much his words would be heeded. Still, he'd done the best he could. Somehow he knew his Davie would have wanted that.

****

Peter was up to sitting in a chair, now. It had been weeks of him being in that bed, that bed that had felt so good at the beginning, but that had started feeling like a cage before he could move out of it. Now, he could spend a couple of hours in that big armchair, and while it wasn't being about, up and doing, it was an improvement. He'd tried reading, but it made his head ache, so mostly he laid his head against the back of the chair and let his mind drift whenever he was alone.

They didn't leave him alone so very much; it wasn't that they pestered him, but they were too wrapped up in his being with them again, after so long apart, and one or the other of them stayed near, that bell at his side to fetch them if they weren't right at hand, someone always ready to bring him fresh tea, or the small bit of food he could fit into his stomach at one time, massaging his hands and feet with that creme Caeide made up special, that eased the ache and stiffness. Stayed near to talk if he felt like talking, sing to him maybe, if it was Caeide; even old Maude had been known to croon a bit.

He'd doze, wake to the touch of a gentle hand urging him back to the bed, and he'd go, ready by now. They'd usually use a different creme on his body then, so he'd not get sores from laying in the bed, and he'd drift off to sleep with their hands soothing him. By the time he was enough himself to maybe be uncomfortable or shy with that, it had become so much of a routine that it didn't even occur to him to object, not when it felt so good. Then, when he felt restless again, they'd help him, and again he'd sit in that chair.

Later, he was able to move to the chair in the room next door, the walls being opened up between, and from there he could look out that long window over the fields and outbuildings and cliffs, a scene that looked so familiar it was like he'd seen it before, though he knew he hadn't, that it must be that Caeide had just described it so well in her many letters. He smiled a bit, thinking back on those letters, about all her stories of Haven and Angie and the big dog Estelle, and that bloody ram, whatever his name was, something starting with a 'D', he thought. Thought how much those letters had meant, her caring enough to write them, caring enough to build such a clear picture of someplace clean and fresh and peaceful, so different from what he was living in Stalag 13.

He was thinking on that when she walked in, and he was startled into a laugh. Clean and fresh and peaceful, well that wasn't what would have come to his mind at the sight of her. Caked with mud and probably what he would have preferred to think was mud but rather doubted it was from the rather pungent smell, and straw and twigs, hair pulled out of that tidy coil on the back of her head, tears in her shirt, a scowl on her face like he'd not seen there in many a year, she looked more like The Brat than his Caeide, not any older than the thirteen she'd been then, certainly.

"You look like that time you 'ad the run-in with the Brangle Street Lads and they'd thought to teach the 'newcomer' just what was what," he told her, still laughing and shaking his head.

"Well, it's delighted I am to be able to provide some amusement to your day, I'm sure," she snarled at him, stomping past to get to the bath attached to the bedroom.

Somehow, the way she slammed the door behind her didn't brook well for her giving him a bit of song, like he'd been hoping for; or if she did, he doubted it would be a very friendly or polite one! He thought he might tease her for one anyway, just to see her reaction; he'd always liked seeing her in a royal snit; it could be bloody amusing! He waited til she would come back out, wondering just what could have caused her to be in such a state.

Before long, Maude stuck her head in the door, "I heard the stomping and slamming about from the stillroom; what's to do?"

"I 'aven't a clue, except she's come in snarling and spitting, looking like she's been dunked in a mud puddle and rolled in the litter bin," he had to tell her.

Maudie gave him a grin, "well, looks like Duggan won that battle," and gave a bit of a laugh.

{"Duggan! That's it, that's the name!"} "She's been fighting with a bleedin' ram?" he asked, only to be answered by a voice from the doorway to the bath, "fighting, and lost the battle, at least this one!" she told them, now with a bit of a wry grin on her face. She was clean again, long dark red hair hanging wet and free over one shoulder, her in a long cotton wrap gown of sorts, feet bare.

Maudie frowned a bit, "lass, you'd best let me tend those scratches," and Peter could see long red marks on her arms, and another at the side of her jaw.

"It's alright, Maudie, I put a bit on them; they'll be fine. Bloody ram not only tossed me head over tail, he sent me into the berry bushes! I swear he did it on purpose; that miaa miaa of his had a very wicked tone to it!" and they both laughed along with her.

"Why do you keep 'im if 'e does you that way," Peter just had to ask, and was floored by the answer.

"Because, for a ram, he's amazingly sweet natured!" and they were somehow surprised by his slack faced expression. It didn't help when Maudie agreed and added, "aye, it's just that he has a rather twisted sense of humor; he's reminded me of you, Peter, more than once," to Caeide's giggles.

Somehow, that let him know that they felt he was starting to mend, that they didn't have to be so terribly careful of him, and he found himself grinning back at them. "Well, when I'm able to get out and about, I think I'd just better meet this Duggan; could be we'd get along just fine, beings we're so much alike," to the slightly skeptical looks from the two women. 

That seemed to be a turning point, and he found himself thinking more clearly, participating more in the conversations, not dozing quite so much. It was during one of those conversation that he asked Caeide for some help; "I'm starting to remember more about after I left the ship. I remember a little travel office, a man there, 'e 'elped me. I'd never 'ave made it, 'ere or anywhere else if 'e 'adn't."

And he told her more about the nightmare of the truck, and the ship, and then London, finding so much of the East End simply gone; about his wandering and the rising fever and sickness, and mounting fear, and the safety of that little travel office with its light in the window, the welcome he'd received there.

"I'd like to thank 'im, but don't know 'ow I'd find 'im," he admitted.

"We've the envelope from your pocket, the remains of the tickets and such. I can see what I can find out. Surely, he deserves thanks, ours along with yours," she told him, and her voice was husky and her eyes damp, understanding even more about how close run it had been for him, making it to Haven, making it home.

He nodded, and she fed him tea and fresh scones with sweet butter and wild honey, and ran her hand gently across his hair, reaching down to kiss him softly there as well. It was as good a way of saying "I love you" as any, and better than some. She'd waited long for a chance to say that, and she intended to say it in as many ways as she could think of.

It was a bit of a challenge, but not one she'd pass by. It wasn't long before she had what she needed, a name, an address, some information.

It had been one of his off days, the healing seeming to progress rather like the frog in a well, one, two, three leaps forward, then falling back one, two, then starting all over again. It wasn't til a week or so later that he brought it up again.

"Caeide, did you say you have the direction for the travel man? I think I'd like to write him now, if you don't think it'd be a bother for him to hear from me?"

Peter had just started that, the slightly self-depreciating tone, and it worried her more than a bit; the feeling of being hesitant about people, about being a bother, worried about them wanting him about. She thought it was part of the healing process, she hoped it was not a sign of a coming depression, to which he was, had always been prone. She thought part might have been that rather loud conversation taken place in the big room downstairs a couple of weeks ago, where a small delegation from the village and surround had thought to take her to task for having 'that no-account Londoner' here, thinking to tell her he was a burden for her, him taking advantage, being a risk to her and everyone else; them thinking to tell her to send him away, thinking to remind her of the damage to her reputation, of all things.

Well, she'd sent them packing with a bug in their ear and a few burrs elsewhere to be sure, but it had gotten noisy for awhile, and there was no way he could have avoided hearing part of that. They'd had it peaceful enough around here for more than a few years, no real disagreements between Haven and the villagers and other locals, and seemingly they'd forgotten just who they were dealing with. If necessary, she'd be happy to remind them! If they set back his healing, she'd be MORE than happy to remind them!

"I've his direction certainly. Would you like to be at the desk, or should I bring you the small table to sit in front of you there?" and she helped get him set up, pen, paper, and left him to it.

"Let me know when you've finished; I'll bring you tea, and I baked a tarte tatin that turned out right nicely; I can bring you a warm slice," and left him to labor over his words, though he spared a thought for that tarte tatin, wondering if it would be similar to the ones Louie had taken to making back in camp, the ones that were so good, that he'd said a good and wise friend had given him the recipe for. She knew she'd be sending her own letter along with Peter's, thanking Giles Masters for his aid, for sending her heart back home to her.

***

A knock on the door startled her; not many came to Haven. It was a working farm, the occupants more likely to be out and about, knee deep in work, not sitting around waiting to welcome visitors. She thought grimly, drying her hands from where she'd been washing the baskets of fruit she'd just picked and brought up from the orchard, ready for the making of jam and fruit butters and pies, and to be dried against the winter, {"better not be any more interfering busy bodies thinking to tell me how to live my life or manage Haven; I'm not in the mood!"} Her face was stern, not particularly welcoming when she opened the big front door, but that changed when she saw the slightly stooped old man standing there.

"Reverend Miles, it's been too long! Come along inside, I'll get water for the pony," and she hastened to do so, making sure the pony was in a cool comfortable grassy spot. Coming back in, she grinned at her old friend, "and what brings you to visit today? And I can make tea, or coffee, or there's a nice bottle of whiskey that could use a lowering, if you'd like," eager to make him feel at home.

"I've been told you have a visitor, a rather unusual and unlikely visitor, and I wished to make his acquaintance," the rueful smile on his face telling her exactly what he'd heard.

She snorted, "Yes, I imagine you HAVE been told that, and probably a bit more, but he's not a visitor. It's Peter, him I've told you about for many a year. Will you go up and meet him? I warn you, he's not well; was very ill when he arrived, and while he's on the mend, it's going to be awhile til he's strong and upright, and truly himself again." Her voice was strong and pleasant, but the look in her eye was wary, cautioning.

Reverend Miles gave a tiny hummpph, and patted her on her cheek, a bit of reassurance from a very old friend, "I remember you telling me of him, certainly; and it's glad I'll be of meeting him. I'll try not to tire him out, I just want to welcome him, see if there is aught I can do to help," and she smiled in relief, knowing now she had nothing to fear from the old man who'd been such a support to her over the years.

"Wait here, I'll tell him you're coming up, make sure he's prepared," and Reverend Miles had to wonder just a bit at that. Still, at her call a few minutes later, he made his way up those wooden steps and heard her call him from the first room. That was her bedroom, the Reverend knew, and he found himself a bit uneasy, both being there himself and knowing the stranger, no, not a stranger, her Peter, was in there. 

Reverend Miles was shocked, and fought hard not to show it. He remembered her description of Peter Newkirk, the physical as well as his personality, his skills and talents and all; this gaunt man seated in the armchair, well, he'd not have connected the two easily. Dark haired, yes, though some few strands of grey starting to show, ever so weary, slightly lost blue-green eyes; the talented hands she'd bragged on, they were near as knotted as the Reverend's own, with veins standing proud of the flesh, and deep ridges where none should be; knowing how old the man was supposed to be, just twelve years older than Caeide who was not far into her twenties, the Reverend wondered at what he'd gone through to cause such. The scars on his face, the most prominent running the full length of one cheekbone; the tension and pain in his eyes, with the telltale haunted expression of one who's survived more than some would ever experience, all tugged at the old man's heart.

Mostly, though, it was the wary and quietly defiant expression, the expectation of harsh words, being rejected, that made up the Reverend's mind, along with the pleading now evident in Caeide's brown eyes as she stood behind the chair with one hand lightly on the man's shoulder. Taking one of those damaged hands into both of his own, squeezing warmly and gently.

"Welcome, Peter, and it's pleased I am to be finally meeting you. It's much I've heard about you, and eager I am for us to become friends. Do you play chess, by any happenstance?" knowing from Caeide that Peter did indeed play chess. "I've no one to play with me anymore, and I do rightly miss it. I understand you're quite the card player, but sadly, that's not my strong suite, I must admit," knowing those hands would have a hard time even holding cards til they healed more, if they did. "Perhaps, sometime down the road, you could teach me more?"

And Peter's expression, of hesitant wonder and puzzlement at the greeting, made the old man glad he'd come today; this was someone who needed him, needed his friendship, and the Reverend Miles knew Caeide herself needed him to be a friend to this man she had loved so dearly for so long. Caeide smiled and made her way out of the room, to prepare the tea pot and the bottle of good whiskey and glasses and the sweet biscuits Maude had baked earlier. The tarte would have required use of a fork, and Peter was very awkward with such still, even if she cut the tarte into small pieces, and would be embarrassed in front of their guest at the trying; no, she'd not have that. {"This, this is good, I believe. He's been a good and steady friend to me; I think he will be the same to our Peter, and Peter desperately needs that."}

After about an hour, the Reverend excused himself as needing to get back to the pony and his rounds, and Caeide walked him to the door. When they got there, she drew him into a warm hug, "thank you, thank you so much! I can't tell you . . ." and her eyes were wet with tears.

"Lass, he's a long road ahead of him, you know that. Stand fast! If I can help him gain his footing, I'd be pleased to do so. And the others? Those of the village and such, just you never mind them! They'll come around, or not, but Haven stands apart; you don't need to be listening to them, not that you would, of course, no more than Haven's ever let anyone else dictate to them," with a chuckle. "I'll have a word or two to that point, that point and a few others, to see if I can't get them to ease off," and he departed with a sly grin. She saw him off, looked back up those stairs and climbed them to find Peter more than ready to head back to the bed.

"I like 'im, Caeide, I do, but 'ow does 'e know of me?" and after she helped him get settled, she sat and told him of the years of her training here, then the years when she was mostly alone at Haven, and Reverend Miles had been such a friend to her, listening, discussing, never judging. It was a new thought to Peter, that she'd been lonely, set apart; he'd never considered that; she'd never talked of that in her letters. From what he'd been told by her family, part of that was possibly due to what had been between them, though not of his doing, really, nor probably of hers. He thought of that story Coura had related, of one of their ancesters with the same kind of one-sided bonding, her moving away from the rest, to make a new home away from all the others because of that bonding.

"Is that why you came 'ere, Caeide, because of . . .?" and she told him a bit of those years. No, she hadn't come to Haven because of her unexpected Bonding to Peter, not exactly. She'd spent a good part of her childhood here, helping, in between the lessons and training and all; she'd loved it here, and the three who lived here had loved having her. Agnera and Kathleen had thought she might prove a capable second to Maeve, and she was. When Maeve died, far too early, it was Caeide she asked to take over Haven, it was Caeide she'd given over the property to. For Caeide, it was a responsibility, a promise of the future, a possibility for a true 'safe haven' for those she loved and who needed such, something the Far-Seeing Ones had seen she'd have a need for on several occasions, not just one; a challenge for her, mind and body, and, admittedly, a refuge from those, even some few of the Clan, who thought to dissuade her from her unorthodox Bonding.

She explained all that, and continued, "the locals, well, Agnera and Kathleen were Bonded and had been together for more than thirty years, and Agnera had lived here all her life, for the twenty before that, never casting an eye on the lads hereabouts. They were accustomed to that. However, the heir, my cousin Maeve had chosen no man, well, not that they knew of, and they'd their hopes raised, that one of their sons, their kin might claim Haven, although Haven has NEVER chosen from the locals, never, and it will never leave Clan hands, however much they like to think otherwise! They'd forgotten that, it seems, or thought it something of the past, or something they could overcome."

"When I came, I was not courted, of course; I had no interest in their lads," reaching out with a smile to stroke the back of her fingers along his cheek, her heart in her moist eyes, "and after all I was ONLY one of the family who'd come to help Maeve, no prize. When I inherited, suddenly I WAS a prize, a most rich prize - well, Haven was, with me being what would be tolerated in order to claim such a prize."

Peter snorted at that, "bloody fools, the lot of them, then," earning a wry grin and another sweet touch to his cheek.

"They were certain I'd eventually come around, though why they thought that, I've no idea! It's not that I'd a reputation for being biddable, you know!" They shared a wry grin at that, him knowing full well just how 'biddable' she was inclined to be.

"There were those who accepted me without the plotting and planning, Davie and Magda Rhys for certain, old Mr. Tanner, the blacksmith, and his family, and some few others, but old Reverend Miles? He'd been my friend since I first came here as a child. I could talk to him about anything, without worrying it'd be used against me somehow." He was taken aback at that, thinking again how she'd been isolated in many ways, and newly grateful to the old man, and also to Davie Rhys and his wife, who'd already done him a good turn.

"To Reverend Miles, I could talk about my hopes and dreams for Haven; I could talk to him about you and Maudie and Marisol, all I experienced, all I felt, and no sign of reproach or admonishment did he give. He's never tried to force Outlander ways on Haven; he understands we are bound by Clan law, Clan Custom, not theirs. He's one of the few I welcome to Haven without thinking I have to be on guard."

And so it was that Reverend Miles became a frequent visitor to Haven, with the occasional chess game taking place, at first upstairs, and eventually in the big room downstairs when Peter could safely manage the steps with some assistance. Sometimes they listened to the radio, sometimes music, sometimes they talked. It seemed they could talk about most anything and not feel awkward, and Peter found him telling the old man some small bits about his experiences, his friends in the camp, in particular young Andew Carter. The old man nodded, and knew, understood much more than Peter was saying, seeing the warm affection in those blue-green eyes.

And Reverend Miles was the one come to visit with him the day the letter came in response to the one he'd sent to Giles Masters. Peter was just finishing reading it when the Reverend came, and the odd mood the old man discerned in the younger, well, he drew him out, and heard the story.

"And he wrote you back, did he?" only to hear, "No. 'is minister wrote me. Mr. Masters, 'e's dead." And the Reverend didn't quite know how to respond, for the look in Peter's eyes was most strange.

"Wrote to thank me and Caeide for sending the letters. That Mr. Masters 'ad them tucked into 'is pocket, wouldn't let them leave 'im, made everyone read them to 'im, both of them, over and over again, when 'e couldn't do it for 'imself anymore. That 'e was confused, there at the end. Told the minister that the one letter was from 'is son; that the government 'ad 'ad it all wrong, that 'is Davie didn't die in the war, but 'ad come back to 'im one dark evening as the war was ending. That 'e'd asked for 'elp in getting someplace important, someplace 'e now counted as his 'ome, and of course, 'e'd been glad to do so. That the boy was all settled in now, in a good place, with a woman what loved 'im, and others who cared about 'im. Said 'e'd gotten a letter, telling 'im all about it, one from Davie, though 'e was going by 'is middle name of Peter now, one from 'is woman, and a right fine lass she seemed to be, all 'e could 'ave wanted in a daughter-in-law. That she'd asked 'im to come and stay, if 'e'd like; there was a place by the fire for 'im. The minister said 'e died calm and peaceful, thinking 'is Davie was in good 'ands."

Peter's eyes showed just how shaken he was. "I'd never 'ave made it 'ere without 'im; I was at the end of my string, a ready target for the next who thought to take me down. 'E saved my life."

And Reverend Miles laid a kind hand on the still too gaunt shoulder, "and you gave him back his son, you let him die a happy man, Peter. It seems a good bargain to me," and watched those blue-green eyes fill with tears. 

"You never said you'd written 'im too, asking if 'e'd like to come, that there was a place by the fire for 'im."

"It seemed to be the thing to do; without him, you'd maybe not have made it home. That was the least I could offer for bringing you home, and it seemed you'd not mind," and his arms closed around her tightly at her words.

{'Home, she said; yes, that was exactly it, wasn't it. I made it home,"} he thought to himself, in wonderment, and he sighed deeply.


End file.
